If You Are Prepared: The Truth About Harry
by Cybele1
Summary: Part One. Dumbledore has a plan to keep Harry and Severus safe. Preslash. SSHP Parts 2 and 3 can be found at the Walking the Plank archive.
1. Dumbledore's Plan

Title: If You Are Prepared (1/?)  
  
Author: Cybele  
  
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and a bunch of corporations own these characters. I just love them. I wouldn't even consider trying to make money on this story. And I am quite sure no one would pay, anyway.  
  
Rated: R, for language and innuendo.  
  
Pairing: SS/HP  
  
Summary: Dumbledore has a plan to keep Harry and Severus safe. Pre-slash. SS/HP  
  
A/N: POV of Snape in this chapter. This is me trying to make sense of Dumbledore's ominous words in GoF. This will likely be the back story of a much more gruelling angsty fic I am trying to write. Please tell me what you think. I can take it.  
  
Chapter 1: Dumbledore's Plan  
  
"If you are prepared," he said.  
  
Prepared? No. Horrified. Shocked. Somehow livid with rage at the foolish boy watching dumbly from the bed. I find myself trying to blame him for all that has happened. Prepared, I definitely am not. But I move my head in what I believe to be an affirmative way and swiftly leave the room. I am only vaguely aware of a scroungy, flee-ridden mutt bearing its teeth at me as I walk passed it. I pat its head absently and begin walking toward the dungeons, mentally composing my last will and testament, which somehow has become a catalogue of rare and deadly potions when I hear my name being barked. I turn to see my sworn enemy, turned brother-in-arms, standing where the mangy beast had been. It occurs to me, somehow, that I had completely ignored a creature which one could easily mistake as a death omen, and I laugh. Sirius Black looks puzzled. But doesn't he always?  
  
"Dumbledore may trust you, but I don't. If you so much as breathe in Harry's general direction, I will kill you."  
  
My mind goes to work right away, creating a flood of scathing retorts that manage to get soaked up by the dry spongy material in my mouth that I'm sure was once my tongue. I give the man a dismissive wave of the hand and seek my sanctuary in the dark, cold, damp, yet strangely comforting, dungeon. It is here that my mind becomes alive once more and some order mechanism kicks in, letting me think coherently.  
  
*"If you so much as breathe…"*  
  
Right, so Dumbledore has evidently not told the boy's Godfather about his oh, so brilliant plan to keep me and the Child Superstar from harm. I think how ironic it will be when I accidentally poison the little bugger and Black accidentally rips a few gaping holes into my body. I shrug off the thought. If I have to choose between death by Voldemort and death by Black, I will choose Black. He isn't clever enough to be cruel. I pick up a stack of parchment and begin punishing a class of third year Gryffindors for being. I immediately feel a calming wave of general bitterness wash over me and wonder only vaguely what sort of monster I had been in my previous life to deserve being reincarnated so close to hell.  
  
~o~o~  
  
  
  
At the first sight of the Muggle neighbourhood I'm reminded of one of the reasons I became a Death Eater so long ago. I feel nauseous and I can scarcely keep myself from taking out my wand and casting a growth spell on their perfectly cut grass. I hurry up the stone walk way, amusing myself in imagining the look on the Muggles' faces were they ever to see *my* garden. I knock three times on the oak door.  
  
Disgusting. My stomach lurches at the sight of this obese idiot before me, and (Merlin help me) I nearly laugh watching the boys face scrunch up in terror, his mouth opened stupidly in a silent scream. I bring myself to my full height and torture him with my most menacing glare, normally reserved for Neville Longbottom. He turns and waddles down a hallway, disappearing behind a door. I can hear him squeaking something about Vampires and I begin to wonder if I have the right house. Not even Potter's family could be so dim.  
  
I see an older version of the fat boy stalking toward me, every step causing dangerous vibrations through the room, and the wall hangings shiver with dread. But I don't. I toy with the idea of turning his moustache into a muzzle and immediately regret not doing so when he begins to bumble.  
  
"W-what, who…"  
  
I muster up enough English polity to say, "Hello. I'm here for Harry Potter."  
  
I am impressed by my own capacity to hide my utter disdain. I watch in wonder as something like fear falls over him. His purple face goes white, and then climbs the colour spectrum, finally ending with a lovely shade of blue-violet. He babbles something like "g-g-godfather," and I cork up an eyebrow. Under normal circumstances, I might turn a man into a slug for mistaking me for Sirius Black. Indeed. I force myself to remember that the Muggle cannot possibly grasp the absurdity of his blunder. I grit my teeth and say, "I'm his professor," *and not an ignorant, raging psychopath.* "You should have received an owl from Headmaster Dumbledore, announcing my arrival."  
  
Dumbledore had told me that the Muggle family might be "a bit uncomfortable" by my presence. Who isn't? I expect discomfort wherever I go. Normally, it pleases me a great deal to have such an effect. The man's face fades back to purple and then becomes crimson and trembles with rage. Leave it to Dumbledore to understate things.  
  
"I will have none of this nonsense in my house! There is no Potter here. Out! Get out, or I'll call the police!"  
  
My mind goes temporarily blank with astonishment. I watch the Muggle with a sort of detached awe, wondering vaguely how he'd managed to stay alive with such quickly fluctuating emotions. I am quite sure I have never met a more offensive person. He stomps toward the doorway where I am standing and I reach, instinctually, for my wand. He freezes, his face again the colour of ash—or maybe lilac. Yes, I am reminded that it is almost time to dig up lilac roots. I can hear the pounding of his cholesterol laden heart…or not. It occurs to me that the pounding is coming from under the staircase. Then I hear a muffled "I'm in here," and it takes me a moment to realise to whom that voice belongs.  
  
I push past the terrified Muggle, who seems to be attempting an explanation, and I walk to a door and unlatch it. The boy squints into the light and blinks rapidly. His face is flushed and sweaty from screaming. I can see the exact moment his eyes adjust to the sudden assault of light and focus on me. He blinks again in disbelief.  
  
"Professor? What are you—"  
  
He forgets his manners, but I am still too stunned by the entire situation to note it. In the two weeks he's been away from Hogwarts, he appears to have lost five pounds. The grumbling of the large man cowering in a corner brings me back to my senses. "Get your things, Harry."  
  
Wait. That didn't come out right. I can still taste the word on my lips. He has noticed, too and looks…well, gobsmacked seems to be the right word.  
  
"Now, Potter," I amend, managing to put the right amount of bitterness into it. Thankfully, it works because he rushes off. I wait until I can hear his footsteps on the second floor before I turn on the Muggle.  
  
"What's he done?" From his reaction, one would think I'd threatened him. He manages two coherent words: rules and nonsense. I nod, dismissively. I know firsthand the insolence of the boy. And while I have never locked him into a broom cupboard, I can't say I wouldn't have tried, were I ever given the opportunity.  
  
"Potter will not be coming back this summer. The Headmaster will be in touch." I try to keep a neutral voice, but the man still quakes with fear. He makes Longbottom appear brave. I see him eyeing my wand warily. I begin to play with it to torture him further. The harmless green sparks which shoot out may have been the Avada Kedavra curse judging by his reaction to them. Potter finally arrives with an armful of books and an owl and pulls his trunk out of the cupboard, stuffing the books inside. He looks up at me and I'm startled to see fear there in his eyes. I have seen a range of emotions fall over that face…from nervousness, to smugness, to indignation, contempt…but fear was never one of them. My lungs seize up. I attribute it to the Muggle air.  
  
I look at my watch seeing that we have three minutes before the portkey is set to take us to an "undisclosed location." I extract the strange object from my robes and look up to see that Potter's face has grown a shade paler.  
  
"What are you doing with a telephone receiver?" he asks suspiciously.  
  
"It's a portkey. We have two minutes, 33 seconds; so if there is anything you're forgetting, I suggest you get it now."  
  
"To where?" he asks. His eyes narrow and then look between me and his trunk. I wonder at his reaction until I remember where the last portkey took him. I try to extract the impatience from my voice long enough to answer: "I don't know. Didn't you receive Dumbledore's letter?" He looks toward his trunk again and then back to me. He shakes his head. *What is he thinking?* My patience runs out. "I don't have time to earn your trust, Potter. If you will please grab a hold of this ridiculous thing, I'll explain when we get there." Reluctantly, he takes the handle of his trunk and bids me hold the owl cage. A shaky hand grabs the other end of the portkey as he looks at his uncle, who has been staring at us as though we were a circus sideshow act. Potter seems amused by this, but his eyes still shine with foreboding.  
  
"Bye, then," he says, almost inaudibly. And the portkey carries us violently into the void.  
  
~o~o~  
  
We land, one on top of the other, on a cold stone floor. The portkey falls from my hands; as does the owl cage, the owl none too happy about it. I'm painfully aware of Potter's trunk pinning down my right arm, and pleasantly aware of a warm thigh pinning down my…  
  
"Potter, get up!" I command with too much urgency, I think. He seems to jolt to his senses. I see awareness wash over his face, fade to paralyzed humiliation, awkwardness, and then back to fear. I am in awe of the range of emotions in such a short time, and then in pain as he scrambles to his feet. I pull myself out from under his trunk and then lean against it, recovering from two contradictory aches.  
  
"What?" I ask looking up at him, and then realise that he isn't looking at me, but at his trunk. *Oh. His wand.* Of course, he wouldn't have it on him as he couldn't use it over the holidays. I am momentarily impressed by his instinct—an instinct a boy his age shouldn't have. An instinct that I, myself, didn't develop until much later. "Don't worry, Potter, I'm not here to kill you."  
  
He doesn't look convinced. "Where are we?"  
  
"In exile," I mutter, looking around a large stone room. A dungeon, thankfully. I light a fire in the chimney to add to the dim light of two torches lit on opposite walls. The room is very large and quite empty, except for two twin beds on one end, a desk on the opposite end, and two lumpy looking chairs in front of the hearth. There is one door on a far wall, which I silently pray leads to a way out; but I am doubtful.  
  
"Dumbledore sent you a letter. Why didn't you get it?"  
  
"I've been locked in a cupboard, haven't I?" he snaps. I am nearly relieved to see insolence back in his expression.  
  
"Nonsense, boy. He sent the letter the day after holidays began."  
  
"Well then, I guess he just missed me, as I've been there since the night I got home!" Something like embarrassment comes into his face. I stare at him, wondering if I should believe him or not. Trying not to think about the ramifications should I choose to believe he is telling the truth, I decide on a safe retort.  
  
"With punishment so strict, I'd think you'd be more careful about breaking the rules."  
  
"Right. Then you'll be sure to remember that when you find I've not studied over the holidays."  
  
"Come now, Potter. You don't expect me to believe you were locked in a cupboard two weeks for doing your homework," I scoff, but can immediately see it's true by his expression.  
  
"I don't expect you to believe anything I say, Professor." There is venom in his voice and I've a mind to slap him. With my hand. I'm startled. Idiots such as the boy's godfather resort to physical violence as a means of expression…not wizards like me. We are able to think of more permanent ways of revenge.  
  
"Watch your tone," I warn. It pleases me to see him struggling to hold his tongue, but I make a mental note to immediately teach the boy how to control his display of emotion. One of the most important defences.  
  
"How long do I have to stay here?"  
  
"Until next term." I almost take pleasure in responding, knowing how the answer would torture the boy. But then I remember that I, too, will have to endure the torment and my pleasure is replaced by the dull ache of resentment.  
  
"With you!?" I shouldn't be offended by this outburst, should I? I suppose I just wasn't ready for *blatant* disdain. "I though," he began to babble, "er, well…after what happened…you know…" My patience grows thin again as I watch him try to form a coherent statement. "I figured you'd go back to working for Dumbledore…you know, like you did before."  
  
It takes me a moment to extract a meaning from his rambling. *A spy? Again? Not bloody likely.* I'm almost brought to laughter, but I manage to catch it in time to respond.  
  
"No, Potter. This may come as a shock to you, but the Headmaster prefers that I stay alive. Unfortunately for the both of us, he insists you do the same." I scowl at him, daring him to rejoin. And then it occurs to me…*the boy shouldn't have known about that*… "How did you find out about that?" I glare at him suspiciously and the flush of his cheeks tells me that he discovered the information doing something he ought not to have done.  
  
"Er, I …sort of…fell into Dumbledore's Pensieve."  
  
Sort. Of. Fell. I almost laugh again. *Damn. Twice.* I feel something like envy creep into my stomach. I would like very much to fall into Dumbledore's Pensieve. But then again…no, better not.  
  
"You're to begin advanced defence training tomorrow. It appears as though you're to be rewarded for your inability to stay out of trouble." I'm taken aback by the look on his face. How dare he be less than thrilled by the opportunity?  
  
"But, I'm on holiday," he protests.  
  
"Maybe you should have thought about that before you—" What? Lived? I can't bloody well fault him for that, can I? I fumble for a word, mentally cursing the boy. Three times in ten minutes, I have lost my reserve. Add to that, calling him by his first name, and the day had, indeed, been a failure. I take a deep breath and repeat that training will start tomorrow. I leave to explore my prison.  
  
~o~o~  
  
I'm awakened by a familiar surge of unbearable pain and I clutch my arm as though trying to keep the skin from ripping open. My breath catches in my throat and I clamp my mouth shut to keep from screaming. The dark mark shines behind my shut eyelids—a reminder of my one big fuck up. The pain subsides, but for a ghostly stinging, and I pant to catch my breath, while my own conscience taunts me:  
  
*Well you deserve it, don't you? Stupid git. You'd think your first clue that maybe joining the Dark Lord wasn't a great idea was the fact that his call to arms is so goddamn painful. Not so ambitious now, are you Severus?*  
  
The taunting stops as I become aware of the soft, steady rhythm of sleep coming from the bed next to mine. For the first time, I'm thankful that Harry Potter exists. I concentrate on the soothing sound of his breath, and I drift back to sleep. I don't know how long I've been sleeping when I am jolted awake by a strangled cry.  
  
At first, I wonder if I hadn't dreamt it. But then I hear laboured breathing from the bed next to mine, followed by another pained cry. I light the lamp and look over to see Potter curled into the foetal position, clutching his head. I do not react, but marvel at the boy's face screwing up in pain. I'm too astonished to feel sympathetic toward him. I have, of course, heard about his scar (who hasn't?), but until this moment, I've never seen it work. He screams as another wave of pain overtakes him. He rolls to his stomach, his knees curled underneath him, and he shoves his head into the mattress. I cross the brief distance between our two beds without thinking.  
  
"Potter?" My voice is hoarse and betrays my concern. Some dim aspect of my consciousness curses me for my display of sentiment.  
  
"He…I…aaaugh."  
  
I don't know at what point I developed any sort of maternal instinct, but my hand begins to caress the boy's back in what can only be interpreted as a soothing fashion. I hear myself say, "Shhhh," ignoring a familiar voice in my head screaming, *"What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"* His nightshirt is drenched in sweat and clings to his curled spine. His breathing comes raggedly now and I feel his muscles trembling in an attempt to relax. My hand, which I'm now convinced has a mind of its own, begins stroking the back of his head. After a few minutes, his breathing slows to normal. I feel him tense up again, probably at the realisation that his most hated teacher is touching him. I withdraw my hand, almost too quickly, and jump up off the bed. I feel completely ridiculous, but I manage to mask over my embarrassment before he looks up at me.  
  
"Has it passed?" I say, relieved to find my voice steady and cold.  
  
He nods dumbly. I can see something flash through his eyes, but cannot quite place the look. In the dim light afforded by the lamp, I can see a pink flush colour his pale cheeks. He rises to a kneeling position on his bed and looks up at me.  
  
"It was Karkaroff, I think. I mean…I had a dream…"  
  
It takes me a moment to realise what he is going on about, and my stomach lurches. *The old man's dead then.* I nod stiffly in recognition and try to calm my own fears. *I'm next.*  
  
"Professor, I…" he chokes on his own emotion, and then shakes his head as though trying to dispel some tenacious image. "He's looking for you," he says apologetically.  
  
Not exactly news there, is it? I nod again and then become aware that I have been nodding like a fool all along. "Go back to sleep, Potter," I say, and my voice cracks like a fourteen year old boy. He looks angry, but I don't care much about that. I extinguish the light and begin worrying about silly things like my own mortality.  
  
  
  
~o~o~  
  
  
  
  
  
"Potter, get up."  
  
I fight the urge to reach out and touch the pale smooth skin of his shoulder. He is far too skinny, but the faint line of muscle there and the delicious sight of a bare nipple makes him look a better dish than the drab breakfast I've just conjured. I damn the little brat for daring to remove his night clothes and force bitterness into my voice. "Get up, now. We've work to do."  
  
He looks up at me lazily and blindly reaches for his glasses. His green eyes are punctuated by the red rims of an obviously restless night. I'm sure I don't look better, having spent most of the night listening to his snivelling. Several times, I had to fight the urge to comfort him. I wonder what the hell has come over me. I empathise with the boy, I think. He is too young to be tortured by such dreams. Too young to be the target of Voldemort's wrath. Too young for me to be staring at him like this.  
  
*Damn.* I turn away and walk to the desk which holds tea and porridge that I summoned from Hogwarts. I am glad it worked, as there is no kitchen in the place we're at. Nothing more than this room and a bathroom. Of course, I enjoy the darkness. But I worry about Potter's ability to withstand it. It must be dreadfully depressing for a boy his age, of his mentality, to be locked up out of the sun. He is far too pale as it is. The idea occurs to me to bewitch the ceiling to reflect the sky. I make a mental note to look up the spell, as I sit for breakfast.  
  
"Where'd this come from?" he yawns, stretching his arms above his head. At least, he had the decency to put his clothes back on. I don't answer but sip my tea He sits across from me and begins shovelling porridge into his mouth. I hate watching children eat. My stomach flip flops and I look away, waiting for him to finish. I begin going over my lesson plan in my head.  
  
"Professor Snape? I was wondering…" I shoot him an impatient look, but he continues anyway. "You know how I can…well…my dreams. Do you think Vol-er, You-Know-Who dreams about me, too?"  
  
I hadn't thought of that before. My stomach tightens to think of it now. I don't think the Dark Lord dreams, exactly. I try to imagine him sleeping, and I fail. Sleeping is such a human thing to do. But is it possible that he has visions of Potter? That he sees us now? Together? Dumbledore managed long ago to break the tracking charm on the Dark Mark on my arm. Is there a charm on the boy's scar? A lot of good hiding will do if the boy is linked to him. Surely, Dumbledore thought of that. Right?  
  
I can't think of an answer to the boy's question. I grunt and drink my tea, hoping that will keep him from asking again. He is angry, I can feel it. I glance over at him and see his eyes blazing with rage.  
  
"You don't believe me, do you?"  
  
"Finish eating, Potter," I say and rise. I decide to take a shower to avoid his questions.  
  
When I turn off the water and step out, I can hear muffled voices coming from the adjoining room. For a moment I'm paralyzed with fear. I quickly robe myself and dart through the door. I relax at the sight of the Headmaster who is smiling that infuriating smile. I perform a quick drying spell on my hair and walk toward the two.  
  
"Good morning, Severus."  
  
*Piss off, Albus.*  
  
"Morning."  
  
"Harry was just telling me about his dream." I glance at Potter whose eyes are staring at the floor. His jaw clenches.  
  
"Did you find him?" I ask and was answered by a nod.  
  
"Just outside Hogsmeade. Disturbing," he says and lowers his eyes. I notice Potter watching me and I turn away from him. His gaze makes me uncomfortable. And my stomach burns with…loathing, I think.  
  
"The boy's scar, Albus. Can Voldemort track him by it?" My voice is low, and I wish that I could talk to the Headmaster alone. Dumbledore won't meet my eyes. He knows something he isn't saying. And I will not find out until he is ready to tell me.  
  
"Harry is safe here. As are you. So long as neither of you know where you are, Voldemort cannot find you." I can tell he's lying…or keeping something from me. I want to blast him into a hundred pieces, but I simply nod. I know, at least, we're safe. I'm sure the old man has seen to that.  
  
"Sir, might I have a word in private?" I try, motioning to the bathroom. I can feel the boy's glare penetrate me. Dumbledore looks at me and shakes his head.  
  
"I think it best if we all speak openly, don't you?" I clamp my jaw shut to keep from cursing him out loud. Speak openly, indeed. I'm sure I don't know anyone with more secrets than the man before me. Hypocrite. Damn him.  
  
"The boy cannot be cooped up in this dungeon, Albus. Children need sunlight and fresh air," I say through clenched teeth. Despite myself, I look at the boy who is gaping up at me. Shocked to find that I am concerned about his welfare, no doubt. Despite the number of times I've saved the little bugger's life. Dumbledore is smiling again with amusement. I feel my wand hand twitch  
  
"Of course, you're right, Severus. How thoughtful of you. I will see what I can arrange, but at the moment I fear the two of you must stay here. Sorry Harry. Severus, I have taken the liberty of bringing a few of your things. I'll pop in from time to time to check up on you."  
  
After a little more small talk with the boy, Dumbledore leaves. Harry goes to shower and I am left wondering how in the hell I'm going to get through the summer.  
  
~o~o~  
  
  
  
TBC 


	2. Breaking Through

A/N: POV of Snape in this chapter. Sev teaches Harry a new trick. Harry uses it against him. Thanks to all those who read and reviewed.  
  
Chapter Two: Breaking Through  
  
  
  
"You're angry, try again."  
  
"This is stupid."  
  
"Nevertheless, Potter. It's necessary."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"We've gone over this. Our emotions betray us. You must learn to hide them if necessary."  
  
It occurs to me that I don't remember ever having this much fun before. Teaching the boy to keep a straight face is more difficult than it should be. But it allows me to indulge my impulse to provoke him under the guise of teaching. And he is forced to take the abuse. On the inside I'm grinning wickedly. On the outside…well, I'm grinning wickedly. It unnerves him.  
  
"Fine," he says. His mouth purses to a thin line, and I watch him consciously try to relax his face into a neutral expression. I have been staring at that face for three weeks now. I have it memorised. I know exactly what he's feeling at the exact moment he feels it. I love the power this gives me. I love provoking every single one of those emotions. I'm nearly ashamed by how much I enjoy it.  
  
"Are you still a virgin?"  
  
His eyes widen and his normally pale face becomes bright red. I almost laugh. But don't. Of course, I don't even have to guess at the answer. It's written all over his face. He *is* only 14, after all. Or is it 15? I seem to remember him saying something about his birthday. But that doesn't concern me. Of course at 14, my own innocence was but a vague memory…no, best not to think on that just now.  
  
"You're embarrassed, try again." I see his embarrassment turn to anger. Clearly, his lessons do not bring him nearly as much enjoyment as they do me. But I don't mind about that. I watch his eyes narrow, and then his face fall to relaxation.  
  
"Were you aware that your godfather is gay?"  
  
Embarrassment. Shock. I was going for indignation, but whatever. He failed anyway.  
  
"Try again."  
  
"Wait. Is that true?" I shoot him a stern look, but he doesn't back down. He's curious. Curiosity. Another of his more annoying attributes. I'll think of a way to force that from him later.  
  
"Potter, concentrate." He reluctantly obeys.  
  
It is getting harder to come up with things to say. It is taking him awfully long to learn to do this. So much the better for me. I have resorted to telling him things he shouldn't know, and then watching the wheels turn in that feeble brain of his, trying to determine whether or not I'm lying. He seems to be able to suppress laughter well enough. Either that, or my wit escapes him, which is much more likely. Anger and embarrassment are his weak points…and, of course, the most amusing to provoke.  
  
"You're probably a pouf, too." Nothing. *Very good.* I continue. "I often wonder about you and Weasley, up there in the dormitory. Do you watch him get dressed?" Nothing. I'm impressed. "Do you think about him while you're in bed? Tell me, Potter, who do you think about? Whose face do you see at night when you close your eyes? What images go through that puberty-plagued brain of yours?" I find myself reluctant to continue. I certainly shouldn't be speaking like this to him. I'd expected a reaction sooner. One more and I'll stop. "Your shower certainly seemed extra long this morning."  
  
He blushes. I nearly do too. *Damn.* I make a mental note to rinse the shower before I use it.  
  
"You're embarrassed."  
  
"You love this don't you?"  
  
"You're angry."  
  
"You're sadistic." Of course, he's right.  
  
"This is your training, Potter. If you don't feel up to it, I'll just tell Dumbledore that the Famous Harry Potter doesn't need his help."  
  
His face goes blank again. "Maybe I just don't want to turn into you," he says. His voice is cold. There is truth there. I'm shocked. I'm hurt. But why should I be?  
  
"You're angry," he says and grins. *Almost right,* I think, and then scowl at him. It occurs to me that he'd do well with a little lesson in determining the emotions of others, too. Of course, I'll leave that lesson to another teacher.  
  
"Cute," I sneer. "But I wonder, who were you thinking about in the shower?"  
  
He blushes again. I smile, despite myself.  
  
~o~o~  
  
If I were pressed, I'd have to admit that I'm sorry that the summer is ending. While I do love potions, teaching it rarely offers the same sort of satisfaction that I have gained here. Potter's blank face almost disturbs me now. But I know, at least, that he has learned.  
  
"What are you looking at Potter?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
Damn him. I've created a monster. He has become good at it, I must say. And although it took him much longer to learn than any of the other things I've taught him this summer, he was never so enthusiastic about perfecting anything else. He does it to irritate me. I will not be so easily irritated. I want to do something that will break through again. Bugger. I want to see something in that face. Anything.  
  
I turn my attention away from my pitiful desperation and back to my sixth year potions lesson plan. We will be returning to Hogwarts and I will be left to teach useless children a beautiful and delicate art. My task seems even more daunting now. But I don't think that the Defence Against the Dark Arts position would do anything to raise my spirits this year. They don't teach any sort of real defence in the course. Dispelling boggarts won't help any of the little brats fight Voldemort. Dumbledore was right to give Harry this training.  
  
*Damn.* I did it again. I don't know how I managed to stop calling him Potter in my head, but it really must stop. I tell myself that it isn't my fault. It isn't easy to live with someone for so long and not start to think of them familiarly. It's normal. I'm with him every waking moment. I listen to his nightmares. I see him in that vulnerable state between sleep and consciousness every morning when I wake him—his eyes heavy-lidded blinking up at me, his parched mouth curling up into a lazy smile, his long slender fingers fumbling for his glasses. *Oh god.*  
  
I shake off my reverie. It must be all this time locked into a dungeon alone. True, I spend much of my time locked in dungeons anyway, but normally I'm alone. I realise he is staring at me again. I can feel those eyes of his burning into the top of my head. He has become rather audacious of late, but what am I going to do about it? Give him detention? His insolence has tripled. And while that should bother me, what bothers me more is that he amuses me. Were he not 14 (or is he 15, now?), and were he not Harry "the bloody saviour" Potter, I might mistake our little exchanges as flirtation.  
  
"Stop staring Potter."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"I can see you."  
  
"You're not even looking at me."  
  
I look at him now. I can see he's amused. I loathe him.  
  
"Be careful Potter, I might start to think you fancy me." He blushes and I suddenly feel a twinge of triumph. I can see something flash into his eyes. Is that…shame? It's gone now. His face is blank again, but he has turned back to his history textbook. This puzzles me. I expected more from him by way of response. Or did I want it? We stopped earnestly arguing weeks ago. I daresay he has become immune to my attempts at provocation. But that was the point, right?  
  
"Be careful Snape, I might start to think you fancy me."  
  
Very funny. I had been staring at him. He grins at me and I would give anything to be able to slap him. Since when did the tables turn? At what point did I allow this little prat to get to me?  
  
"I think not, Potter." *Was that the best you could do?* Damn.  
  
"Oh, come on, professor. You know you want me."  
  
I most certainly do not! *Methinks the lady doth protest too much…*  
  
"You might find this hard to believe, but not everyone is charmed by your fame." There, that should shut him up. It usually does. Biting. Cutting. Scathing.  
  
"Who do you think about in the shower, professor?"  
  
Wasn't. Expecting. That. The little bugger. When did he become so bloody sharp? The boy has spent entirely too much time with me. I'm rubbing off on him. *Stop gaping like a fool and respond!*  
  
"Let me assure you, *little boy,* were I thinking of anyone in the shower it would be someone a little more developed." He is shocked. Now angry. Perfect. I shoot him a smug sneer for good measure and return to my work.  
  
~o~o~  
  
"Potter, no one must know what we've done here. If anyone asks where you've been all summer, you are to tell them that you were at Hogwarts. Is that clear?"  
  
"But why?"  
  
Blast his youthful curiosity. Just once I would like the luxury of telling him something without being questioned. I scowl down at him, but he is unfazed by this. Accustomed to it, I might say.  
  
"Because you have been taught things you're not supposed to know. The Headmaster could go to prison for allowing it."  
  
He is gaping at me. I see something like guilt wash over his face. A rare moment when he forgets himself. I can see him searching for words. His brow furls, pulling that dreadful scar straight.  
  
"So could you," he says with a little too much sadness. We hadn't worked on sadness, I remember, but brush off the thought. It's true…but going to prison is the least of my worries. I should have gone to prison a number of times, but managed to escape. Which makes me remember the reason I'd agreed to do this.  
  
"Finally figure that out, did you?" I can still manage to be biting when I need to be. His face goes blank again, and I know I've pissed him off. I often wonder what he uses as his focal point. I never asked him.  
  
"Why did you do it?"  
  
"Dumbledore asked me to." *Asked, indeed.* Dumbledore's requests are never optional. They are orders politely dressed up to sound like you have a choice. I can see him working things out in that pretty little head of his, and then he turns his gaze to me, those eyes flashing with amusement.  
  
"I think you wanted to. You probably volunteered." I have grown weary of being teased by this boy. He has forgotten his position as my student and this must not be tolerated. Were we back at Hogwarts I might take twenty points just for that bloody glimmer in his eyes. I may yet.  
  
"Yes, I was simply bursting with joy at the prospect of passing my holiday babysitting." He doesn't like to be reminded that he is just a child. And by all rights, he isn't…not in any normal sense. But I wipe that thought from my head. It is much better to treat him as a child than think about him as a young man, growing… developing …Stop.  
  
I hold out the portkey and he hands me that irritating owl of his. He stands close to me and I can smell the lavender scent of his hair potion. He stares up at me as though trying to read my expression. I silently wish him good luck, but I tense under his gaze anyway. Not that I'm afraid he will actually succeed in reading me. I'm not. But under his gaze, I'm uncomfortable. This is not the way it is supposed to be. And as soon as the portkey pulls us to Hogwarts, all of our little games end. I wonder if he realises that.  
  
"Professor Snape?" He asks. His voice is strange and I glance down at him. I grunt in recognition because I can't trust my own voice. I curse myself for this and silently pray that I can manage to come back to my general bitterness once my feet are firmly planted in the brat-filled halls of that school.  
  
"I just wanted to thank you…you know…for helping me. It was...fun."  
  
I'm supposed to say something after this. Something that tells him that what we have done has nothing to do with fun. I should be furious. My professional side begins drafting reproach after reproach…and then mentally crushing up the thoughts and lancing them across my consciousness, just missing the wastebasket, and landing right next to my dignity. I settle on silence as an appropriate response and try not to notice that the boy is smiling again. 


	3. Adjusting

A/N: POV Harry. Back at Hogwarts, he feels a little out of place. Thanks for all the reviews on the first two chapters. The next will visit Sev's brain again (such a fun place to be).  
  
Warning: Harry's thoughts jump around quite a bit. This is intentional. I'm trying to write from the POV of a slightly unbalanced 15 year old boy...so, there is a bit of angst, too.  
  
  
  
Chapter 3: Adjusting  
  
The portkey whisks us away and we land suddenly. My trunk falls heavily to the floor and I stagger forward into Snape. He steadies me with a gentle hand and it takes me a moment to gather my wits. When my brain settles back in my head, I realise that my head has settled onto Snape's chest. I can't help sniffing. The man has a most amazing body odour. Fresh and clean, and yet earthy...  
  
My stomach tightens as I realise I'm even trying to describe Professor Snape's body odour, and I still have a hard time believing I've been close enough to smell him. The hand on my shoulder pushes me away and I almost blush. I hope to god that I can manage to hate the man again before I see Ron. Ron is my best friend, granted. He would stand right beside me and battle Voldemort. But I'm not sure he would forgive me for smelling Snape (willingly, at that) and coming up with adjectives like "amazing" to describe the scent.  
  
Looking away from the man before me, I notice that I have no idea where we are. It's a sitting room of some sort with bookshelves lining the walls, and a fireplace that seems to be lit solely for decoration, as the room is freezing. There's a stiff looking antique chair in front of the hearth with a tea table next to it. A dim light comes from a lamp lit on a desk in the far corner. I realise that we must be in his quarters. But I ask him anyway.  
  
"Where are we?"  
  
"My chambers," he says and doesn't look real happy about it. Not that he ever looks happy about anything, but there seems to be degrees to his bitterness. I figure he is somewhere between annoyed and nauseated He hands me Hedwig. I don't know what to say to him. I feel awkward. I should say something…or do something.  
  
"You may go now, Potter. The other students should be along soon. I trust you will find your way out of the dungeons before the Feast begins."  
  
*Focus on something neutral.* I smile inwardly at the irony. He would be so pissed off to know that I focus on potions. Something I care nothing about one way or another. I'd like to tell him exactly what that is, but I don't. Whenever he tries to piss me off, I imagine my cauldron simmering with some nasty smelling slop inside. I wonder what he thinks about. Maybe he doesn't have to focus anymore. Habit, most likely. Is he capable of showing an emotion other than disgust? I wonder what his face was like before he perfected his talent.  
  
"Are you going to miss me?" I say and smirk. Continuing the game. I have actually grown to enjoy it. Pushing him until he pushes back. And he always pushes back. Hard. But now he seems to remember where we are. Or maybe being at Hogwarts has reminded me who he is. I feel much less sure. Much less…arrogant. My smirk fades under his glare. Well, it was fun while it lasted.  
  
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Potter. Now go."  
  
I grit my teeth, but don't say anything. The neutral expression I perfected over the summer refuses to show itself now. I look briefly into his eyes and I see him laughing there. I leave his chambers and after a few wrong turns find my way out of the dungeons.  
  
~o~o~  
  
"Harry! We've been worried sick about you!"  
  
I grin to see Hermione running toward me and almost laugh as her face goes from joyful to McGonagall in no time flat. Ron is coming up behind her and looks murderous. I feel nervous. Their questions fire at me before I have time to come up with a good lie.  
  
"Where the hell have you been? Why didn't you answer my owls?"  
  
"I-" I can't lie to my friends. Not directly. "Didn't get them?" Hermione's lips have completely disappeared; Ron looks suspicious.  
  
"Mum said that you were here all summer!"  
  
"I was…sort of. Dumbledore, er…" Locked me up in some sort of dungeon with Snape who taught me illegal dark magic tricks, while I shamelessly flirted with him. "I was in hiding. I didn't get any letters. Sorry." I realise suddenly that I have been holding my face in my practiced expression the entire time. I try to force myself to look apologetic and am horrified that I don't remember how. That combination of facial movements: the furled brow, the grimace of the mouth, the softening of the eyes…they're all so complicated when tried together. I think that I must look ridiculous trying to get the expression right, so I stop and let my face fall again. Ron and Hermione look…terrified.  
  
"Harry? Are you feeling all right?" Hermione certainly has no problem with the concerned look. Ron has the dumbfounded look down to an exact science. I sigh and smile…or I hope, at least, I'm smiling. I tell myself that I should probably practice in a mirror as soon as I have the bathroom to myself.  
  
"Of course. I'm starving. The Sorting's going to start soon." Thankfully, they leave off and we go into Great Hall. We sit down and I look up to where Snape usually sits. He isn't there. I shouldn't be disappointed, right? I just spent two months locked in a room with the man. And it wasn't pleasant. Or it shouldn't have been. I can feel Ron and Hermione looking at me again and I turn toward them. They lean in at exactly the same time.  
  
"You were in hiding?" Hermione whispered. "Where?"  
  
I shrug. "Dumbledore wouldn't tell me."  
  
"So what did you do? Were you alone?"  
  
"I studied all summer." Well, it isn't a lie and Hermione seems happy enough with my answer. Ron looks horrified and I hope he hasn't noticed I didn't answer his second question. If he notices it's too late. McGonagall leads a line of nervous first-years to the stage. I suddenly feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and I look back.  
  
He's there. I want to smile.  
  
But I don't.  
  
~o~o~  
  
"Potter, what do you call this?"  
  
"A digestive potion, sir. Why? What's wrong with it?"  
  
I blink up at him. The corner of his mouth twitches and I can tell that he's angry. Ron and Hermione watch us with foreboding. Hermione's gnawing at her bottom lip again. Ron is gaping between me and the professor. These exchanges occur altogether too often--Snape glowering down at me, insulting my intelligence, threatening me with detention; and me, looking up at him as though he were talking about the weather. The entire class is watching and even Malfoy appears uncomfortable.  
  
The bell rings and Snape clenches his jaw. "Class dismissed. Potter, stay where you are."  
  
I begin putting away my things calmly. He has not moved. I can feel him glaring at me and I become a little nervous. I should probably try to look scared, but the expression comes automatically. The moment I walk into that room, the moment I see him, my face falls. I don't even have to concentrate anymore. It's almost alarming.  
  
We are alone now. He waves his hand and the door shuts loudly. He stares at me a long moment and I tense imperceptibly under that glare. "What are you playing at, Potter? You've never been what I would consider an ideal student, but you could normally manage to get through my classes without being a complete failure."  
  
*Ouch.* I beg for this abuse, don't I? "I did as you said. There's nothing wrong with the potion." My voice is calm and steady. I almost laugh at how this affects him. He wants to make me angry. He wants to break through. It occurs to me that I'm only truly happy when we're doing this. That's disturbing.  
  
"Twenty points from Gryffindor for your cheek, boy. I will not be a part of your game, Potter. If you continue this, I will be forced to go to the Headmaster and let him know that you are abusing the lessons that he has awarded you. Perhaps, those lessons shouldn't continue."  
  
My stomach drops and I'm aware that my mouth has, too. We are set to begin again at Winter break and that's been the only thing that's kept me sane all term. I hadn't realised just how much I'd been looking forward to it until now. Not the lessons, but the escape. I try to apologise, but the words won't come out of my mouth. I see him smirk. He's pleased. Git.  
  
"What's the matter Potter? Is it possible that you're actually looking forward to being locked in that room with me?"  
  
"Strange, eh?" Oh. That wasn't supposed to come out. He looks as shocked as I feel. My face falls back into neutrality and I wait for him to say something hurtful.  
  
"You may go," he says and turns to walk toward his desk.  
  
"That's it?" I hear myself say and then I wonder who the hell has taken over my mouth. I tell myself to shut up, get my things and go before I make a complete fool out of myself. Too late. He turns around. His regard is murderous. I find myself flinching uncontrollably.  
  
"Another 10 points from Gryffindor. One more word and we'll make it fifty. And if we must have this little exchange again, you will be spending the remainder of the term with Mr. Filch. Now get the hell out of my classroom."  
  
I gather my things and storm out. Ron and Hermione are waiting outside. Both look worried.  
  
Ron clears his throat and begins cautiously, "You know, Harry. It might help if you at least tried to look intimidated when he glares at you. I mean, that face you get around him is just creepy."  
  
"Just, don't." I stomp my way in silence back up to the Common Room. The two of them trudge behind me.  
  
~o~o~  
  
  
  
I wake up in a cold sweat. Again. The nightmares have returned. Not the prophetic, Voldemort-related ones—those never actually went away. The ones where Cedric Diggory's dead face gapes up at me. Scared to death. Shocked white.  
  
They're not always the same. Tonight, he and I are on the pitch together. I see the snitch hovering inches above his head. I pull my Firebolt and fly in the opposite direction, hoping he will chase me. I get across the field and look back. He hasn't moved; neither has the snitch. He hovers on his broomstick close to the ground just inches below victory. And he hasn't noticed. I fly toward him fast and as I reach for the snitch, I see his face. Frozen in horror. His eyes are hollow. The gold glimmering above his head is not a snitch but a galleon. I reach for it and fall from my broom. I wake up before I land.  
  
When I wake up from a nightmare, shaky and panicked, my mind reaches out for him. I strain my ears for a second to hear the smooth chill voice say, "Potter?" That's all he ever said. But somehow it helped. To know that he'd been listening. To know he knew.  
  
Right. So, I have completely lost my mind. I imagine that he is in the dungeon tonight, thanking his good fortune that he no longer has to be kept awake by my pitiful snivelling. Probably, he doesn't even think about it at all. Not even enough to be glad it's over. I curse myself. I have *really* got to stop thinking about the man.  
  
I curl my pillow around my head and roll to my side. This is the eighth consecutive night that I haven't slept worth a damn. Before that my insomnia streak lasted sixteen days. So maybe I should hope that I'm halfway through it, and will get a nice three day break before the next one. The problem is that people are starting to notice. McGonagall keeps asking me if I want to go talk to Pomfrey. Hagrid has been giving me dodgy looks. And while I know it shouldn't make me angry, Ron and Hermione's concerned half-smiles make me want to hex someone. People tip-toe around me as though at any moment I might flip out. All eggshells and whatnot. Except him. He hasn't changed. He's still a bastard.  
  
This isn't working.  
  
I pull back my bed curtains carefully and slide into my slippers. I've stopped putting my father's cloak back in my trunk, I use it so often now. Pulling it out from under the mattress, I drape it around me. Whenever I try to creep out of the room, it occurs to me that for all their magic, wizards should at least be able to fix creaky floorboards. But no matter. I have them mostly memorised now and can manage to slip out of Gryffindor with only a few complaints from the tired wood. The Fat Lady doesn't even bother looking confused anymore when her portrait swings open by an invisible force. She waves absently and rolls over, falling back asleep.  
  
It occurs to me that I'm jealous of a portrait.  
  
I quite like my silent midnight strolls. Or rather after-midnight strolls. I think even Filch stops making his rounds after a certain hour. I haven't run into him since school started. Though I have had a few encounters with Mrs. Norris, but even she has stopped hissing at my invisible form. Not that I go out every night. But it certainly beats silently cursing the steady breathing of my roommates. I'd hoped that once Quidditch began in October, I would be worn out enough to sleep normally again. But if possible, it only made it worse. Not that Angelina hasn't tried to sap every ounce of energy from her players. I think she might be worse than Wood. But exhaustion isn't enough. Instead of falling asleep, I lay in bed thinking about the one game that I lost.  
  
Thus far, I am happy to say, my problem hasn't hindered my performance on the pitch. It seems to be the only time I feel normal. Well, there and in Potions class (stop!). Our victory over Ravenclaw might have made me feel pretty good were it not for the fact that Cho refuses to even look at me. Which didn't help her game at all. We're going to play Hufflepuff after winter holidays. But I don't want to think about that just yet.  
  
I look around me and realise that I have never been in this part of the school before. The portraits snore heavily as I walk past them. My heart beats with excitement and apprehension. The discovery of a new corridor is exhilarating, but I can't help but feel a little nervous that the corridor might disappear, taking me with it. Maybe it only appears once every hundred years or so. Or maybe when the heir of its founder is born or...  
  
OK, so I'm ridiculous. But one never knows in the wizarding world.  
  
I can see the door to a room at the end of the hallway. I approach it cautiously. I reach out to touch the handle and I feel something bump into my shoulder.  
  
I scream.  
  
Turning around, I see Snape. He stares through me. He has my map in his hands.  
  
"Take that damn thing off. Come with me."  
  
  
  
TBC 


	4. Pushing Back

A/N: Back to Snape. Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed.  
  
Chapter 4: Pushing back  
  
He's out again.  
  
When I think about it, I can't say why I've allowed it to go on as long as it has. I should have stopped it in the beginning. I have to admit to being reluctant to confront the boy after his almost emotional display in my classroom. I shrug off the memory and shiver with horror.  
  
I've taken a leaf out of Black's book and devised a little map of my own. I'm disgusted with myself or not having thought of it sooner. One-upped by a Gryffindor. Story of my life. Studying the map, I watch a dot labelled H. Potter, otherwise known as the bane of my professional existence, wander aimlessly around in circles. I become dizzy just watching him and then I note that a new corridor has appeared. He enters it, walks a ways, and then stops. I decide to take this opportunity to catch him—as I should have done months ago.  
  
I floo into the nearest unused office and follow the dot into the corridor. I notice that he's headed toward a room labelled "Not in this lifetime," and I shudder to think about what that might mean. I'd like to take him by surprise, but if that dot gets any closer to that door, I'll be forced to call his name—saving his wretched hide once again. As I notice the dot labelled "King of Slytherin" position itself behind the aforementioned bane, I reach out my hand and feel it collide with a hard, unseen...something.  
  
He screams and I can't help but be pleased with my stealth.  
  
My satisfaction is greatly reduced by the fact that I can't see the little bugger's terrified expression, which I'm sure he will manage to erase before facing me. This surprise attack wasn't nearly as enjoyable as it should have been. I pull myself up to my full height and glare down to where I think he might be cowering. Blasted cloak. I'd shred it to little pieces if I wasn't sure that Dumbledore would do the same to me.  
  
"Take that damn thing off. Come with me."  
  
I might have left out that 'come with me' part until I knew where I'd be taking him. Dumbledore would do nothing more than give the boy a compulsory slap on the wrist and then he'd lecture me about being too hard on him. As usual. Poor little Harry Potter. Not even McGonagall has the nerve to reprimand him properly these days. I've quite given up trying to get him expelled as I'm certain that I will be booted out before anyone would give the boy the punishment he deserves. And besides, I can't help but remember those pitiful wastes of flesh that he calls his relatives. I wouldn't wish those people on Black.  
  
Well, maybe Black.  
  
He pulls the cloak's hood from his head and I'm startled by the image. Nearly headless ghosts I can handle. Fully bodiless Gryffindors—that's eerie. I nearly sigh with relief when he slides the rest of the cloak off. He stares at me and I think I see something like gratitude in his eyes. Not quite what I was hoping for.  
  
Right. Where are we going again?  
  
I begin walking back down the corridor, hoping to come to a decision before it's time to turn. He hasn't spoken. I'm puzzled by this. I'd expected to hear a fountain of excuses pouring out of his mouth. I decide to entrap him, knowing full well that the boy will try to lie.  
  
"Still ignoring those things which the rest of us call rules, Potter? Or have you forgotten that students aren't permitted to walk the halls at all hours of the night?"  
  
"You can give me detention." I stop suddenly and turn to face him. Just as well as I had no idea where I was going. I scowl at his audacity. Giving me permission to punish him. Indeed. His face is filled with resignation. I realise that he isn't concerned about his impending punishment, thereby invalidating the actual point of it. Not to mention quashing what little pleasure I receive from this wretched job.  
  
"I want an explanation," I say, allowing my anger to enter into my voice.  
  
"I had a nightmare." He locks his gaze to mine. I recall with a sense of nostalgia a time when he never looked directly at me if he could help it. His frankness is unexpected and I'm momentarily shocked. And then disgusted when I feel that horrid animal that was born inside of me over the summer creep out of a hole in my stomach. Damn sympathy. Damn Dumbledore.  
  
And damn H. Potter, too.  
  
"I don't recall a clause in the rules of this school where it states that bad dreams give students license to wander the halls after curfew. You should be in bed." I should take him to bed.  
  
His bed.  
  
He blinks and curls his mouth up thoughtfully. "Why are you still up?"  
  
Were I capable of splitting myself in two, I would have beat senseless the part of me that almost answered his question. As though I need an excuse to be awake. I'm an adult. I'm his professor. I'm...  
  
"King of Slytherin?"  
  
...the only one who is supposed to see this map.  
  
I glare. At him. At myself. He grins up at me and that, I decide, is justification enough for the use of certain Unforgivable curses. I thrust the map into my robes and go back to the point of this encounter.  
  
"You've been out every night this week, Potter. If your nightmares are so frequent, I would suggest you seek professional help."  
  
His eyes widened and I see the corner of his mouth twitch. "If you knew I'd been out why didn't you punish me before?"  
  
Um. Damn.  
  
Right, if I look as dumb as I feel at this moment, I may quite possibly resemble Longbottom during a pop quiz.  
  
"Actually, I've been out nearly every night this term." Not that I hadn't noticed, but why in Merlin's name is he admitting to it? He doesn't even blink. Contemptuous little brat. How dare he tell me the truth? I find myself speechless and my legs begin to move again. I realise with a faint sense of horror that they are leading me back to my quarters. The boy follows.  
  
~o~o~  
  
  
  
We enter my chambers and I order him to sit. This is the first time that the sparse furnishings of my sitting room have been a problem. He seems to notice because he seats himself on the floor. Presumptuous little prat. He's poising himself for a heart to heart. I should remain standing and loom over him, but I sit in the only chair and summon my desk chair for him. He mutters a thank you. I cringe. Inwardly, of course.  
  
"Talk."  
  
He looks at me uncertainly and then down at his cloak, which is crumpled between us. The clock chimes four and I find myself once again grateful for those blessed occasions called Saturdays.  
  
"I haven't been able to sleep since we got back," he says and for the first time in ages he blushes. I am dismayed to find myself slightly pleased by this. I attribute my foolishness to my own insomnia, which I refuse to admit is connected with the absence of the boy's peaceful breathing lulling me to sleep at night. That was irritating. Not pleasant. So why on earth have I started on this train of thought again? I mentally slap myself.  
  
"Why?" As long as I keep my sentences to one syllable words, I can convince myself that I am angry for having to do this. I am. Angry.  
  
"I don't know," he shrugs and lifts his eyes to meet mine. He looks...pathetic. His eyes are pleading, though I'm unsure what, exactly, they're pleading for.  
  
"Diggory?" His eyes dull over. The Hufflepuff boy, then. I nod. "Would you like a Potion?"  
  
I struggle to find a way to reel those words back into my mouth. Poppy would skin me alive if she'd heard that. I would lose my job for administering potions to students. What the hell am I doing? I wonder briefly if my relief is visible when he declines my offer.  
  
"I'd just rather not sleep."  
  
I try to find the words to reprimand him, but they don't come right away. There is something about his expression, some hint in his eyes, that makes him appear fragile. In an attempt to protect myself from another open display of emotion, I don't push him. I would prefer he remain unbroken for the time being.  
  
Of course, he can't go on as he has been. So far as I know, I'm the only one who has remarked his night time strolls. Everyone else, however, has noticed that the boy has changed. He's once again become the subject of faculty meetings. "The Problem with Potter." Withdrawal. Loss of Appetite. Short attention span. Sickening. The whole school is wringing its hands over it. Besides the constant shadows under his eyes, I haven't noticed a great change in *my* classroom. Since our confrontation, his work performance has returned to its usual mediocrity.  
  
"So, don't sleep. But you will be punished if you insist upon breaking the rules."  
  
His face tightens up and his eyes flash angrily. "So, I should lie in bed and wait for Cedric's face to come and haunt me. No punishment is worse than that, Professor." He spits the words at me. *10 POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR FOR YOUR INSOLENCE!*  
  
"Mind your tone." *You have fallen.*  
  
"Sorry," he mumbles. He's not.  
  
"Have you spoken with the Headmaster?"  
  
Another flash of anger, and then shame. He clenches his jaw. "He treats me like I'm mad. Everybody does." He lowers his eyes again and I become uncomfortable. If he starts to cry, I swear I'll stun him. He takes a breath and looks back up at me. "Except you, Professor. You haven't changed."  
  
Is that an accusation? No, it's appreciation. I don't know how to deal with that particular sentiment. As many times I've cursed the boy as an ungrateful little brat, I suddenly wish that he'd remained so. I pretend not to notice.  
  
"Nobody thinks you're mad."  
  
"Ron and Hermione do."  
  
"Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger cannot possibly understand what you've been through. As soon as you stop expecting them to try, you can stop wallowing in self-pity."  
  
"God! I don't feel sorry for myself! I just want to be left alone. I want to be free to walk around. It's not too much to ask."  
  
"So, the rules should change for the great Harry Potter because he's special. Is that it?"  
  
"WELL, I AM! No one else around here has to battle Voldemort on a regular basis!"  
  
"Not very perceptive, are you?"  
  
His anger fades to confusion. My anger takes control and I continue. "You can be glad, Mr. Potter, that you find yourself on the right side of this war. Try for a moment to step out of that little play in which you star as the lead victim. Imagine what it might be like for some of the other students for whom Voldemort is a regular guest at the dinner table. Do you know what happens to the children of Death Eaters when the Dark Lord decides to test his subjects' loyalty? You might ask Mr. Malfoy how he spent *his* summer. You should be bloody grateful that you are not among the chosen ones who are unfortunate enough to be considered his next generation of minions."  
  
He is shocked and I watch him go over my words. I'm almost pleased with myself for making the wheels turn in his head, until he speaks again. "Right. Malfoy practically brags about being a Death Eater in training."  
  
"Mr. Malfoy is a proud and arrogant boy. Not unlike you, Mr. Potter. You'd be well advised not to pass judgement on people whose situations you know nothing about."  
  
"That's bloody rich coming from you," he scoffs and I'm furious. I can feel a vein throbbing in my forehead and I realise this exchange must stop before I strike the boy.  
  
"You may go, Mr. Potter."  
  
He purses his lips together and narrows his eyes, before stooping down to pick up his cloak. He walks quickly toward the door.  
  
"See that you don't make any detours."  
  
I see him take a deep breath and I silently wish him away. I resolve not to check to see if he goes back to Gryffindor or not. He turns toward me and all anger has been replaced by an apologetic expression. My stomach lurches with an inexplicable apprehension and I hold my breath.  
  
"Professor, I-" he cuts himself off and I'm thankful for it. I use the moment of silence to collect myself.  
  
"Goodnight, Mr. Potter."  
  
"Are we going back at Winter break?" I grunt and then nod stiffly. Resentment comes back to haunt me and I wonder if I will have the strength to get through the holidays with my sanity intact The boy smirks and I raise my eyebrow, recognising his game face. I'm almost relieved to see it back, barring the fact that I'd forbidden him to use it.  
  
"You're looking forward to it; I can tell."  
  
"Jumping for joy," I say and load on the sarcasm. I feel myself relax, grateful for the return to normality. And then I wonder when I began to think of this little game as normality. Damn. A genuine smile falls across his face and I am horrified to have to stop myself from smiling back. Loath though I am to admit it, I prefer him this way.  
  
Just as suddenly as it came, the smile becomes a grimace and he slumps to the ground holding his head in his hands. My head reels from the sudden shift of mood.  
  
~o~o~  
  
"Potter?"  
  
"I can't go back up there, Professor Snape," he whispers into his knees.  
  
I'm angry again and sickened by his histrionics. No one appears vulnerable before me. With good reason. I'm mean and intimidating. How dare the boy forget that!  
  
"I see," I say and marvel at the calm in my voice. I don't. See, that is. I'm simultaneously stunned and enraged by his dramatics. He reveals himself as a gaping wound before me and I would like very much to grind salt deep within that wound. And I am appalled with myself for not being able to do it. Good gods, what has become of me? Taking a deep breath, I manage to say, "Do you plan to spend the rest of the night there, then?"  
  
"Can I?" Is that hope in his voice?  
  
"You may not." My tone is more panicked than I would have liked it to be. He raises his head, wearing an expression reminiscent of a hungry pup. I remember his godfather. My mouth curls with disgust.  
  
"Just for a couple of hours. Until curfew lifts. Please."  
  
"Has it occurred to you that I might like to sleep at some point?" I can tell by his face that it hadn't. In all fairness, it hadn't occurred to me either.  
  
"I don't mind."  
  
He doesn't mind. How generous. How does one miss a very simple point by so great a distance? *I don't mind.* Bully for him. I mind.  
  
"Very well." *What?* "You may stay." *What the hell? What about your job? Your reputation?* "On the condition that you try to get some sleep." *Oh yeah, where?* "You may use my bed, I'll take the sofa."  
  
It occurs to me that I added that last part much too quickly. He smiles.  
  
"Thank you, Professor." Appreciation, again.  
  
I liked him better when I hated him...he hated me. Damn.  
  
~o~o~  
  
TBC 


	5. Revelations

A/N: Add a pinch of angst and the plot thickens. Severus learns a secret.  
  
Chapter 5: Revelations  
  
"Potter, wake up."  
  
He blinks his eyes open and yawns. "What time is it?" He feels around for his glasses. I hand them to him.  
  
"Noon," I say and swallow back the bile that stings my throat. I can't recall the last time I slept later than seven o'clock. My body could not possibly have chosen a more inconvenient time to break its routine. I wait for awareness to creep over his face. It does, at last, and he darts out of bed, nearly knocking me over.  
  
"Oh shit," he says and then remembers where he is. "Sorry. I...Quidditch practice. Angelina."  
  
*Quidditch.* Before I remind him that it's a Hogsmeade weekend, I have to restrain myself from hexing him for daring to think about a stupid game despite the fact that I'm going to lose my job.  
  
"Wait. There is no Quidditch today." He sighs heavily and falls back onto my bed. My bed. My room. My job.  
  
I suppress a sudden impulsion toward violence and mutter, "Come along, Potter. We must go speak with the Headmaster." My throat is dry and my head feels only tenuously attached to my body. I remind myself that I don't need this job and would most likely be happier without it. I tell myself that I am a fully trained wizard and am probably capable of staying alive without Dumbledore's protection. I try to assuage the nameless feral beast clawing its way around my insides by reminding it that what I've done was kind and thoughtful. I helped a desperate boy.  
  
That last part didn't help. I think I might vomit now.  
  
"Why do we have to see Dumbledore?" He looks frightened and I'm pretty sure it's not out of concern for my well-being.  
  
"Because your absence will have been noticed. I suspect a search party is already underway." *And perhaps if the story comes from you, I might merely be fired and not sent to prison on charges of statutory rape.*  
  
He stares at me intently for a moment and I see his mouth drop. "Professor, are you...I mean, can you get in trouble for me...um..."  
  
"No, it's perfectly normal for Hogwarts' faculty to entertain underage students in their private chambers overnight. Perhaps you've noticed the stream of first year boys coming out of McGonagall's chambers every morning." I pause to savour the angry blush in his cheeks before I turn around. I start off toward the door, desperately trying to figure out what I'm going to tell Dumbledore.  
  
*"Albus, the boy has deluded himself into thinking that I am a friendly ear and it's entirely your fault for forcing us to work together, thereby stripping me of my power to intimidate him. He has dared to become sentimental in my presence on two different occasions and I demand that he be punished."*  
  
Somehow I don't think that will work. I silently pray that I will manage to come up with one good reason that I allowed the boy to sleep in my chambers before I reach the headmaster's office. It's a long walk. I may get lucky. Ignoring a smug voice in my head singing, *I told you so,* I open the door.  
  
And nearly die of a heart attack. Damn my luck.  
  
"Good afternoon, Severus. Or should I say good morning?"  
  
I can feel the guilt and panic contort my features and I instinctually begin composing my will. Instantly, I feel my face fall to its normal sober expression. I try not to sigh with relief.  
  
"Hello, Harry." Dumbledore brushes past me and I turn to see that Potter hasn't fared nearly as well as I have. Were I Dumbledore, I would lock myself up without a trial just from looking at the boy's face. I watch him struggle for words and I curse him silently. I realise with a vague sense of bitterness that he learned nothing over the summer. It makes not a whit of difference if the boy can keep a straight face before me, when he fails the moment a calm façade becomes necessary.  
  
"Professor Dumbledore, it was my fault. Professor Snape found me in the halls last night and he brought me here to punish me."  
  
*I, Severus Snape, being of sound mind...*  
  
"He told me I could stay here, if I tried to sleep. Well, I didn't think I'd actually fall asleep..."  
  
*I, SEVERUS SNAPE, BEING OF SOUND...*  
  
"But I did. Sorry. We shouldn't have slept so long. Not that we...together, you know, um..."  
  
Fuck it. Kill me now.  
  
I decide to keep my eyes closed in preparation for the Dementor's kiss. I'd rather not see it coming. Overall, I've led a full life. I put forth my best efforts to shape young minds—as demoralizing as that experience has been. I was feared and respected by thousands of brainless twits, some of whom have gone off to become mindless drones in powerful positions. I made mistakes, but I've redeemed myself through self-sacrifice and years of torment for the Good of Society. I begin looking forward to the long rest that I assume will come once my soul has been unceremoniously sucked from my body. I convince myself that living without a soul can't be much more painful than living with one.  
  
I hear Dumbledore clear his throat. And then I hear him laugh. Loudly. My eyes snap open. I see Potter with his face buried in his hands, Dumbledore at his side, hiccupping for air. I am astonished, and admittedly fearful. The man is much too old to laugh like that. Potter raises his blushing face and furrows his brow in concern.  
  
"Forgive me," the Headmaster says, at last. He sighs and his face falls back into that horridly mild expression. "Harry, rest assured, neither you nor Professor Snape is in trouble." Relief washes over the boy's face. I feel a twinge of suspicion jolt through my stomach. "I told Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger that you took ill last night and were sleeping in the hospital wing. I think it wise if we kept to that story."  
  
Potter nods stupidly. Dumbledore looks pleased with himself. He usually does.  
  
"I had suspected I'd find the two of you together when Severus didn't appear at breakfast. My suspicions were confirmed by a certain map I confiscated last year from Mr. Crouch. I was relieved to see the two of you sleeping soundly. I daresay neither of you have slept so well all term." The boy turns his eyes toward me and I foolishly try to read Dumbledore's mind. He's up to something. I can tell by his tone and that blasted glint in his eye. I suddenly wonder what sort of pawn I've unwittingly become. I bite down on my anger.  
  
"Harry, you should run along to your dormitory now. If you wish, Professor McGonagall will escort you to Hogsmeade to join your friends."  
  
Potter smiles and thanks the headmaster. The smile grows awkward when he turns to me. He blushes. "Thanks, Professor." He lowers his eyes and walks hurriedly toward the door. He doesn't look back. I watch the door shut behind him and then I turn to the old man.  
  
"I'm sorry, Albus. I shouldn't have let him stay. It won't happen again."  
  
"Nonsense, Severus. I am pleased that he has you to turn to."  
  
*Bugger.* "I'm not qualified to be the boy's counsellor, Albus. And after his performance over the last term, I have serious doubts about continuing to encourage his behaviour by offering him special treatment. If you insist that the boy continue training, I would suggest that we do it during regular school hours. I'm his professor, not his friend. The boy has difficulty remembering that." My words are futile, of course. The man never listens to anything I say. In the end, I will do as he wishes because he is Albus Dumbledore, the most revered man in the wizarding world. And I am Severus Snape, his lackey. I am struck, not for the first time, by the irony. I traded one oppressive regime for another. A slave in both heaven and hell.  
  
He doesn't speak for a long time. I hate his contemplative silences. He lets me stew while he carefully composes his rejection to my plea. * Just tell me to sod off, and get it over with.*  
  
"Severus, I wonder if you'll come to my office this afternoon for tea."  
  
I visibly cringe and he pretends not to notice. If I open my mouth, I'm sure to end up in Azkaban for a very long time. I clutch my hands tightly behind my back to keep them from reaching for my wand. I'm careful not to make eye contact lest I accidentally blast the man into a thousand twinkling pieces.  
  
"Around four will be just fine, Severus." He smiles and wishes me good day.  
  
  
  
~o~o~  
  
I exit the passageway from Dumbledore's office and I lean against a wall to steady myself. I have been asked to tea on numerous occasions. Over the years, I've grown accustomed to leaving the man's office feeling nauseous and enraged. I am not, however, used to feeling like the world has just gone spiralling into chaos. I suppose I should appreciate the novelty.  
  
*"I think it is time you know the truth about Harry."*  
  
I might have laughed at the statement were it not for the grave look in Dumbledore's eyes. *The Truth About Harry.* It occurs to me that it could be the title of some obscure muggle musical. I envision a chorus of Gryffindors singing the opening number, "The Boy Who Lived." A line of Weasleys dressed in sparkling, gold hot-pants go can-canning across my imagination. I shudder and quickly stop that train of thought before Voldemort enters stage left and starts his solo, "This Potter Must Die."  
  
*Hosanna! Superstar!*  
  
Oh gods. I've gone mad.  
  
I take a bracing breath and start off toward the dungeons. I can hear the students filling up the Entrance Hall as they return from their Hogsmeade Visit. I put on my most forbidding expression and walk determinedly. Normally it pleases me a great deal to watch the brats cowering before me, jumping out of my path, flattening themselves against walls to avoid me; but now I scarcely note it. I spy a flash of red hair out of the corner of my eye and I quicken my pace. Where Weasley is, Potter can't be far off. And I'm not entirely sure how I would fare with a confrontation just now.  
  
I reach my chambers in record time and go directly to my bedroom where I plan to spend the rest of the night staring absently at the ceiling. As I'm about to lie down, I notice the boy's cloak in a ball next to my pillow. It occurs to me that he'll be back for it and I try to fight a rising sense of foreboding. I curse myself for being fearful of the brat. I once managed to fool one of the most powerful dark wizards of all time. I can certainly handle a teenage boy with a straight face.  
  
*"What I am about to tell you, Severus, the boy cannot know."* As if that needed to be said. I would sooner slit my throat than be the one to tell him. It would be a much more pleasant experience, I think. While admittedly I enjoy provoking the boy, I try to avoid any emotion that goes deeper than adolescent rage—which reminds me about the reason that bloody cloak is in my bed. My sudden urge to be horizontal is replaced by a sudden urge to get good and pissed.  
  
I sit on the sofa in my bedchamber with a bottle of brandy and a book. I don't actually plan to read the book, but it will serve nicely as a place to focus my eyes while I replay my latest life-altering conversation with Dumbledore. The brandy will eventually allow me to laugh bitterly at the inherent hopelessness of the situation: if Potter dies, Voldemort finally attains true immortality; if Voldemort dies, Potter dies anyway. Ha!  
  
Not enough brandy. It's not funny, yet.  
  
*"I intend to protect the boy for as long as I live, Severus. When the time comes, Harry will have a very difficult choice to make. I would like you to be there for him when he makes that choice."*  
  
Long ago, I gave up asking the question, "Why me?" I successfully kept from asking it in Dumbledore's office. But now, it comes back to haunt me. And I would very much like a bloody answer. Fine line, he said. Fine line, indeed.  
  
I'd like to give him a fine line down the centre of that aged skull of his. I should have known when he nominated me for this task that it wasn't for my extensive knowledge of the dark arts. It occurs to me now that the actual training was never anything more than "let's try to keep Potter busy so he doesn't run off and get himself killed, thereby creating a permanent problem of a temporary Dark Lord."  
  
I pour a second glass of brandy and drink it down, immediately refilling it. Halfway through the third glass I am struck by a sudden thought: in order to save the life of Potter, the wizarding world must keep Voldemort safe from the boy. Making Harry Potter his own worst enemy.  
  
I laugh bitterly and set down my glass.  
  
At least that hasn't changed.  
  
~o~o~  
  
I don't know how long I've been sitting here when the knock comes. Long enough to have studied my conversation with Dumbledore at least ten thousand times; turning it over and over and inside out, searching for the silver lining. I haven't found it, but I'm sure I'll try again later—optimist that I've suddenly become. The knocking grows insistent and I walk to the door. I don't wonder who it is.  
  
He greets me with a nervous, "Hullo." I step aside to let him pass. Closing the door, I remind myself that I'm expected to act as though nothing has changed. I'm supposed to carry on as before, despite the added weight to my conscience. I take a deep breath and turn toward him.  
  
"Another nightmare, Mr. Potter?" My voice is laden with bitterness, but that's normal.  
  
He shakes his head. "I just wanted to thank you again for letting me stay last night. I didn't see you at the Feast. You weren't sleeping, were you?"  
  
I choose to respond with a noncommittal grunt, hoping to stall this exchange while I figure out exactly what I must say to him. Had I not received the shock of my existence this afternoon, thereby destroying every last bit of loathing I'd held for the boy, I would be expected to scold him now. I should say something about his continued disregard for the rules. I should tell him that he is not to make a habit of coming to my chambers at night.  
  
I should continue get hopelessly pissed and try to forget that the boy ever existed.  
  
"Professor, are you all right?" He looks up at me with a puzzled expression and I perform a mental check on my features. I will myself to appear vaguely disgusted and am well aware that it's a poor display. I attribute my lack of control to the brandy.  
  
"You should be in bed."  
  
The little bugger grins up at me and I'm taken aback. "I knew you'd say that. I asked Professor Dumbledore for permission to visit you. So, I'm not breaking any rules. I've even got a pass." He proudly presents the parchment as proof and then adds, "That is, if you say it's all right." I stare forebodingly at the piece of paper. The old man has gone too far this time. I've agreed to keep his little secret. I will continue the charade of training the boy in order to keep him alive until such a time that his death becomes necessary. However, I will not have my private life imposed upon because Dumbledore is winging enough to believe that my company is good for the boy.  
  
This is lunacy. I tear my eyes away from the parchment and glare at him. I see uncertainty settle around his features. I open my mouth to tell him that it most certainly is not all right. I mean to tell him to piss off and leave me to my quiet isolation.  
  
"Potter," I begin and then stop when I see his uncertainty develop into fear. My voice catches. I curse the boy for being so damn delicate and I curse myself for caring. I sigh resignedly. "Oh, very well. Sit." He summons my desk chair and I go back into my chambers to fetch the brandy. If I'm to be unprofessional, I may as well go all out. I give the boy a glass and ignore the gobsmacked expression on his face.  
  
I raise my glass in fond remembrance of the man I once was.  
  
End of Part One  
  
***  
  
*Part Two* http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=746854  
  
A/N: I would like to take this time to thank all of you who have followed this story. I'm overwhelmed by the response it's gotten. Your comments have silenced the nagging voice in my head that tries to convince me I suck as a writer. I've become something of a review addict, so please don't stop. There will be three parts to this. The next part will be a bit, um...warmer than this was; hence the rating will go up. Woohoo!  
  
"Hosannah! Superstar!" of course, comes from "Jesus Christ, Superstar," which began playing in my head while I was writing this chapter. I'm not sure if that should alarm me or not.  
  
I am indebted to Minx for her very existence. This story, and every story that pours forth from my hp-obsessed brain is dedicated to her and her brilliance. 


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